


I Will Try To Knock Them Down

by casualcoterie



Category: Glee
Genre: Bloodplay, F/F, Menstruation Kink, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 08:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3283163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualcoterie/pseuds/casualcoterie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a GKM prompt asking for Brittany and Santana and some period sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [The prompt.](http://glee-kink-meme.livejournal.com/48822.html?thread=62907830#t62907830)

Brittany isn’t going to lie to herself. When Santana called her swearing a blue streak on day two of a three day train trip from NYC to LA over cramps and how the trio of hippies in the next sleeper responded to her request for a tampon by trying to give her a weird tiny plastic cup, she was super bummed. Like, sex is definitely not the only thing she was looking forward to about this visit. It wasn’t even the best thing. But it was definitely **a** thing she wanted to take advantage of. 

She spent the whole day before Santana arrived trying to figure out a way to broach the topic of sex during her cycle - rehearsing internal scripts as she eyed boxes of disposable latex gloves while waiting at the pharmacy - but ultimately it just felt like the wrong time to bring it up. Trying to make their separate lives one big life involved way more _separation_ than either of them anticipated; while it’s not like they haven’t had sweet lady sex since their island holiday, that was ages ago and everything has been a whirlwind since. This was supposed to be a _Them_ weekend where they didn’t have to worry about keeping Mercedes up or conflicting schedules or practices leaving them too exhausted to function. In the end, Brittany didn’t want to risk Santana agreeing to do anything out of guilt.

But she isn’t torn up about it, really. She could hypothetically have a sexhausting weekend with any moderately attractive person (which, wow, Santa Monica’s moderately attractive was Lima’s next top model; like, Cheerios! JV squad quality at least). But getting up early to scrape her knuckles raw grating potatoes to just the right consistency for Santana to shape into pancakes, and stirring waffle batter until her arm ached, and cutting up onions for the huge chorizo omelette that Santana smothered in chili lime sauce (the roundabout way that jar made it from Santana’s grandmother’s house to her father - who both Santana and her grandmother always mocked mercilessly for his inability to handle spicy food- and from him to his _preciosa_ at _their_ place was enough to make Santana cry; although that could also have been hormones… or the capsaicin), and then getting stuffed to the point that all they could do for the next twelve hours was cuddle on the couch and watch Netflix; she can only ever imagine doing that with just this one person.

There’s a deep welling fondness in her as she watches Santana watch tv now. Her girlfriend rests flush beside her, head laying heavy on top of her chest; Brittany strokes her baby fine hairline with her right hand, thumbing over the inch of new growth that Santana hasn’t relaxed yet. With her left arm she wraps Santana close, smoothing her palm firmly over the tense muscles of her back. Every part of her is simultaneously fascinated and calmed by every part of Santana, like a dragon resting on its hoard - satisfied in the simple joy of counting long, dark eyelashes, each one as precious as gold.

Santana hums contentedly as Brittany daydreams about her in black steel, or ruby brocade; Santana laid out bare on a pile of warm silver coins. 

“That feels so good, Britt,” Santana sighs suddenly, pulling Brittany out a her wanderings. Which was probably for the best, because she was having a hard time puzzling out the logistics of lady slash lady dragon relations. Her body warms to the sound of Santana’s pleasure, and she tenderly brushes a kiss to the crown of her head.

“Well, you know I love to make you feel good,” she says with a cheeky grin. Santana lifts her head to look at Brittany, chin digging into her breastbone. Not that Brittany minds; she’s been suffering the slings and arrows of her sharp elbows all day. It’s only made her wince sympathetically at Santana’s attempts to stretch and curve against the lingering ache in her belly and back.

Santana gives her an assaying look, the hint of a smile in the rounds of her cheeks. “You’re not even watching the show,” she accuses, half playful and half put out. 

“I’m totally watching. They went to prison, someone gets shanked.” She hasn’t been watching at all, but she absorbed enough to know the prison thing was accurate and the probability of shanks approaches 1 the longer that genre goes on.

“Nobody got shanked Brit,” Santana replies indulgently. The tv makes a noise and Santana twists to face it, rapt in the drama once more. “We can turn it off and do something else if you want,” she offers after the immediate action has passed on screen. 

Brittany smiles at the top of her head, scratching gently at her scalp to elicit a satisfied groan that resonates inside her own chest. “I’m watching.” _You_ , she adds silently. Always always always.

\----

“Ugh, I hate this guy,” Santana gripes. “Time for a bathroom break.”

She makes to roll over her girlfriend to get to her feet, but is brought up short by hands gripping her waist. There’s a moment of intense panic at the position; legs spread wide as she straddles Brittany’s abs - which is so, so nice - three hours since her last _bathroom break_ \- which is as far from nice as you can get. She immediately tries to jerk away, which only makes her girlfriend hold on tighter. “Brittany!”

“Give me some sugar and I’ll get you some more ice cream while you’re gone,” Brittany wheedles, pulling a ridiculous fish face at Santana and making exaggerated kissing noises.

She tries to convey how not impressed she is, even with the promise of sweet treats, but Brittany just grins up at her with a maddening smugness at her own hotness and the effect it has on the woman astride her waist. Apparently she doesn’t realize that she is currently in the splash zone at Red Sea World, which just makes Santana _more_ anxious. Biting down her reactive “I do not negotiate with terrorists” speech, she leans down to drop a shallow peck on Brittany’s lips. Or what she intends to be a shallow peck, anyway. Brittany’s doing that thing where she smiles into the kiss, and it’s more self-satisfied than usual. But apparently her hormones are _totally_ into that because her hips start shifting a little before she really thinks about it, and then Brittany’s petting over her legs in the way that almost always leads to them being wrapped around her head.

“Britt, if you don’t stop your shirt is going to look like an ink blot test.”

Undeterred, Brittany coaxes her down to her elbows and strokes over the seat of her sweats - gentle, like Santana won’t notice. Maybe _she_ doesn’t even notice she’s doing it. “That’s ok, I always pass those. I can take my shirt off if it grosses you out.”

Santana jerks back in shock. “What?”

“What?” Brittany parrots back, confused by Santana’s confusion but still more focused on meeting Santana’s bare shoulder with her mouth. The unusual lack of enthusiastic consent makes her finally pay attention, and her brow furrows at Santana’s expression. “What is it? Does your tummy hurt? Want me to rub it for you?” Her hands drag firmer up and down the curve of Santana’s spine, trying to loosen her muscles with warmth and pressure. “Do you need more Midol?”

Brittany’s face gets this sweet, doting little pout, like she’s legitimately sad that Santana hurts. It makes Santana want to kiss every inch of her perfect face, and she would do just that except… well, the warm, liquid gold in her belly feeling of consciously falling even more in love with her genius girlfriend turns out to feel a lot like the literal warm, liquid feeling she gets when her tampon hits max capacity and her panties are about to look like a crime scene. She kisses Brittany, hard and disarming, and the moment her girlfriend’s grip goes slack she bolts as quickly as she can with her thighs clamped together for the bathroom, leaving Brittany dazed and making feeble grabbing motions at her retreating back.

“Booooo, you whore!” Brittany whines, and Santana laughs at her as she closes the door. Once sequestered though, she turns decidedly more somber. As quickly as she can she settles on the toilet and strips the sweats off, sighing in frustration at the sight of red in the crotch - not enough to render them unsalvageable, but enough that she’s going to have to change. There’s an additional twinge of guilt at the mess, since she was the one that wanted to swaddle herself in the comfort of Brittany’s clothes. She tosses them into the sink and stretches to reach the cold dial so they can soak before the stain has a chance to set. Her underwear is in even worse shape, and she groans as she tosses them into the sink as well.

It’s all a fucking mess - blood is smeared where her thighs clenched together on the trip down the hall. Despite Brittany’s insistence that she was totally cool with au natural, Santana’s glad she pulled up the carpet to get to the wood floor in preparation for what was supposed to be a weekend full of sexcapades. The idea of cleaning blood out of a shag rug right now is enough to make her tear up a little.

Her grandmother - a woman who insists, with the help of some kind of self-made bruja voodoo potion, that she had exactly two periods in her entire life (her very first and the one before she conceived her one and only son), and who will probably die still taking that same potion to prevent even the slim chance that Mother Nature will visit a menses on her that she didn’t specifically invite - swore up and down she bled like some kind of dainty fucking menstrual princesa and had no idea why Santana gushed like “a stuck pig”. Her parents had taken her in for all the standard testing and tried every kind of birth control on the market; it turned out her uterus was just fucking evil and the rest of her body was trapped in its reign of terror. It kept no schedule, instead randomly picking three days every few weeks to just fuck everything up: her back ached, her belly felt bruised, her tits hurt, she felt exhausted down to her very bones, and she cycled through the emotions hungry/horny/helplessly frustrated like she was actually several separate people inhabiting the body of one super hot chick. 

Right now she’s Sad!tana, because all she can really focus on is that instead of snuggling with her girlfriend - who is basically the cuddly human embodiment of a heating pad and a vicodin prescription - she is looking at at least half a shower and laundry. It makes her eyes sting and she doesn’t hold in the tears, accepting from experience that getting it out is just easier in the long run. She’s mostly silent except for a little bit of sniffling, and it passes in less than a minute. After she feels drained, but a little less frustrated. And stupid for crying over Brittany being more than a foot away. That’s some _Marvin’s Room_ shit - and she’s sprung but that’s past romantic and well into pathetic.

She dabs her eyes and cheeks with a toilet paper square and sighs. The longer she puts it off, the harder it’s going to be and the longer she goes without Midol and Brittany’s magic hands rubbing all the sharp edges of her pain away. The doorknob rattles in the silent room and Santana starts in surprise.

“I’m coming in!” Brittany says way too loud as she opens the _unlocked _(stupid stupid stupid) bathroom door.__

Her first instinct is to somehow hide the contents of the sink as she squeals “Brittany!” in the sort of tone that only dogs can hear. But from her position that’s a lost cause, so instead she clamps her legs back together and slaps her hands over her crotch to hide as much as she can.

“You’ve been in here forever. I ate your ice cream.” Brittany closes the door behind her, as if there was anyone left in the house for Santana to need privacy from. “I forgot it was for you. I’ll make a better sundae to make up for it.”

Santana can feel her face starting to burn a little bit as Brittany takes in the clothes in the sink and her position on the toilet. Not exactly a tableau she ever wanted Brittany to have to see.

Brittany pouts a little, the corners of her mouth turning down and drawing Santana’s attention to her favorite freckle. It looks like the saddest freckle right now, and she wants to kiss it a lot. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have grabbed you like I did.” She holds out her palm, two oblong pills with a stamped brand name resting in the creases. “I brought you something for your tummy.”

There is literally nothing inside her that’s even a little bit angry at Brittany, even though maybe there should be because knock much? She just wants to reach out for Brittany and bury her face in her stomach while Brittany pets her head for like an hour. Unfortunately, she can’t reach out for Brittany because of potential biological contaminants on her hands now. Brittany seems to pick up on as much and fills the rinse cup with a little bit of tap water, holding the pills out between two fingers for Santana to take into her mouth and then tipping the cup for her to wash them down with. After returning the cup to its place Brittany’s hands come back to stroke her cheeks, the pads of her thumbs delicately outlining her eyes as she examines the faint, lingering redness there.

Honestly, Santana feels kind of red all over at the intimacy of the position. It’s embarrassing to have Brittany so close when she’s so vulnerable, but it also feels good to not be treated like a leper right now. “Thank you Britt Britt,” she says with a sigh, tilting her head to nuzzle Brittany’s hand. “I’ll be out in a minute. I just need to clean up.”

Brittany gives her a peck on the lips, and then another one right after with that “you’re so cute I can’t help myself” face that makes Santana’s insides go all warm honey again. Which just serves to remind her of the warm rush between her legs that is definitely mostly blood, but also kind of her being turned on? There’s just something about Brittany being, like… _nurturing_ and careful towards her that makes Santana think of riding her like a fucking half dollar mechanical bull.

Hormones are a helluva drug.

“Do you need to use the shower, babe?” Brittany asks, stroking her hair and brushing it behind her ears. She worries Santana’s earlobe between thumb and forefinger absently as she waits for a response and Santana just nods slowly. The tender way Brittany touches her makes her feel so much less weird about the whole situation. Brittany mimics the slow head bob and crouches to dig under the sink, pulling out a bin of dingy looking rags. She picks out a larger one that looks like it used to be yet another pair of sweatpants and hands it to Santana. “So you don’t drip,” she explains blithely when Santana just stares at her expectantly. “It’s clean, I promise. Just old.”

Santana reaches out with one hand and drapes the cloth over her crotch, slowly realizing that Brittany has no intentions of leaving so she can waddle to the shower in private. “Are you - are you going to watch, or something?”

“I wasn’t going to _not_ watch, but mostly I wanna wash these,” Brittany gestures to the sink, “before the blood sets. I won’t look if you don’t want me to, though.”

The guilt rears up faster than the embarrassment this time, and Santana quickly interjects. “Britt, you don’t have to do that. I’ll clean up everything.”

“Nope. You’re going to get your fine ass in the shower, and I’m going to be a good wifey and take care of the rest.” The way she says it is definitive and no-nonsense and if Santana had been wearing panties they would have dropped. The ratio of menses to straight up arousal between her legs has definitely shifted. Obediently, she stands and maneuvers the cloth between her thighs, cupping herself to minimize spills. Brittany gives her a sharp slap to the behind when she pauses to survey the smudged blood left behind on the toilet seat - the smug look Brittany follows it up with is hotter than it has any right to be - and she quickly jumps into the shower. “Go ahead and take your shirt off too, I’ll get you something fresh to wear,” Brittany adds as she turns to the sink and leaves Santana to her business.

\----

Brittany really likes picking out clothes. Her parents say she was picking out her own outfits before she could walk, and dressing herself before she could talk. She spent more time mixing and sometimes matching her dolls’ clothes than doing anything else with them. But there’s always been something really special about picking out clothes for Santana. It’s always made her feel good - that Santana trusted her with something as important to her as her image. And it’s intimate in a way that was easy to dismiss, back when Santana was so scared of their intimacy. Brittany could look at her, touch her and smooth out invisible wrinkles in the fabric, tell her she was so gorgeous, could select the things that would hug her body all day long and it was ok because girls help each other in dressing rooms all the time. She may have abused that logic to get Santana to let her pick out her underwear too, but they only really needed the flimsiest of rationalizations to do the things they wanted to do anyway back then.

Even though now she’s just picking out stuff for Santana to lay around the house in, it still feels super special. The clothes she chooses have to make Santana feel cute and comfortable and warm and relaxed. She sticks to her own wardrobe rather than picking through Santana’s suitcase, half because she knows that when Santana was packing she was planning to be in the house all weekend but she _was not_ planning to be wearing clothes most of that time and half because she knows how much Santana _likes_ wearing her clothes. She likes that Santana likes wearing her clothes.

She picks an old long sleeved work out top, well loved and soft from ages of wash and wear. It drapes low on her torso, so it’ll probably give Santana some modest coverage. She skips the bra and pants. Santana’s boobs get really sensitive when she’s on her period and she gets kind of bloated, so the less constriction the better. Hipsters would be best, she thinks. She picks a dark cotton pair with light colored polka dots on them and tries not to get too distracted by the thought of pulling them up Santana’s legs. Or down them.

She fails pretty miserably. So badly, in fact, that when Santana comes out of that bathroom in her towel Brittany almost can’t make herself leave the room so she can get dressed. She just looks so shy and sweet and, like - ravishable. Fit to be ravished. Like when they played Student and Teacher and Santana asked about an oral exam for extra credit while wringing her hands in affected nervousness. Brittany’s not sure what exactly The Thing that she has for Santana being all bashful is about but it’s definitely there and it definitely made it really hard not to whip Santana’s towel off and go down on her on the bedroom floor until all that embarrassment melted away into writhing and hair pulling.

But she’s being a careful, doting girlfriend right now, so instead she gave Santana the gentlest kiss she could manage - even after Santana introduced a little tongue and made those quiet, satisfied moans that makes Brittany’s whole self ring just for her - before leaving her alone and heading to the living room to set things up and then to the kitchen to make good on her earlier promise of ice cream. She’s actually proud of herself for that act of self-control. 

She takes out three different flavors of ice cream and also hot fudge and whipped cream and maraschino cherries and caramel and sprinkles and oreos and brownies from the bakery four blocks down and then overwhelms herself with the possibilities and ends up staring at the vast potential on the counter until Santana saunters in. Arms loop around her waist and Santana’s soft cheek rests heavily on her shoulder. It feels natural to pull Santana in closer, resting their hands together over her stomach, one on top of the other. They both survey the counters for a long, quiet minute. Eventually Santana turns to press a firm kiss to the shoulder of her sweatshirt and gives her a squeeze.

“Do you have any pretzels?”

Brittany grins, shuffling forward slowly to keep Santana anchored to her, and reaches to the cabinet over the fridge. Even her baby’s salt cravings are cute. “We have pretzels.”

She can feel Santana’s butt wiggling in excitement. “Just dump everything in a mixing bowl and give me a spoon.”

So cute. “I’m gonna make this, you go wait on the couch.”

Santana draws her arms back too quickly, muttering a shy _sorry_ as she pulls away. Brittany spins and grabs her left hand before she gets too far - she forgot for a second how _emotionally_ sensitive Santana gets during her period - and presses a gentle kiss to her palm. “I’m not, like, implying you’re being super clingy or anything. I mean you are, but I like it,” she reassures, pressing another kiss to her palm. “I just want you to be comfortable. And I wanna take care of you. I really like doing that.”

It’s hard, sometimes, for Brittany to get words to sound like what she means, but Santana always tries to hear the heart of it. Santana quiets; her lips press together gently and her dark eyes dart over her face - quick Z traces that take in everything and don’t miss anything because she wants to know all the things in Brittany’s head. It makes Brittany feel full up with something fierce and thirsty. Santana cups her cheek and draws her in for a warm kiss, and it’s so satisfying to be with someone that just _understands_ that she wants to shower her with piles of treasure in return. 

One day she will. For now, sundaes will have to do.

She grins into the kiss and Santana smiles back, which makes her grin harder, and they fall into a familiar loop of sweet kisses traded back and forth. Her arms drift to their familiar place around Santana’s neck and her body livens to the almost familiar feel of their bodies pressing flush. She has to lean down a little more than she remembers from before second senior year, and while she knows she's not the same person she was then it’s still weird to see that she’d _literally_ grown while they were apart.

The kissing goes on for longer than she intended; at some point Santana worked her hands under her heavy top and Brittany shivers at her smooth nails raking up and down her spine. She can taste lemon drop chapstick on the inside of her bottom lip and feel the hard countertop at her back. It’s Santana who breaks away first, leaving Brittany looking a little dazed and confused. She watches transfixed as Santana runs her finger around the corner of her mouth, cleaning her smudged balm and looking supremely self-satisfied. “You better hurry up then. My ice cream is melting.”

Oh.

\----

Wearing Brittany’s clothes in _their_ (!!) space feels super domestic ( _wifey_ ), as does the sound of Brittany puttering around in the back rooms while Santana relaxes over the back of the couch. Her abdomen twinges and she shifts uncomfortably on the layers of towels Brittany laid out for her while she was getting dressed, shifting from knee to knee in a slow sway to work the aches out. It’s not ideal but she’s super appreciative of the thoughtful gesture. Hopefully Brittany is up for more sweet lady kisses, because her hormones are super appreciative too. Having Brittany take such good care of her was a thing she didn’t realize she was so into. And she really wants to feel Brittany’s hands petting all over her like they were before; like she’s something to be treasured.

“You can start the show again, I’ll catch up.” Brittany says as she breezes by, stopping just long enough to kiss Santana’s temple and set down her bowl on the coffee table. Santana grabs her arm before she can pull away completely, tugging her back to give her a proper kiss. It’s a little awkward at the start until Santana wiggles her way to fully face the right direction, but then Brittany’s kissing her back with a fervid hunger that surprises her. In a good way. Her hands gravitate to Brittany’s soft, squeezable hips naturally, and she draws her in with an insistent tug. And then it’s awkward again with Brittany straddling where her lap would be if she wasn’t almost standing on the cushions to try to reach her perfect mouth and they mostly end up slumping over to the right side of the couch until Brittany breaks the kiss with a start and a wet noise. “You are super distracting,” she deadpans, her knee pressing into the couch harder for a moment before she hauls herself to her feet again. “Sit. Eat. I’ll be back.”

Santana huffs but obediently retrieves her bowl and pops a heaping spoonful in her mouth as demonstrative proof that she’ll behave - for now. That is, until the blessed marriage of salt and sweet and crunchy and sticky combine on her tongue and she moans appreciatively. And maybe a little obnoxiously, but the way Brittany’s face goes slack at the sound is almost as good as the fucking _rich_ brownie she hid under layers of ice cream and sprinkles.

It’s not long before Netflix sucks her in once more, and she’s halfway through a thick ribbon of caramel before she notices Brittany returning from the bedroom. She doesn’t really acknowledge her right away - the hot prisoner is on screen and her doomed crush on her bff has Santana clutching tissues in the same hand as her spoon - so when Brittany starts coaxing her to move closer to her end of the couch again she does without thinking about it. Brittany stops her when her butt hits the back of her crossed legs and she spreads her hands right above her tailbone, thumbs meeting in the middle. “I’m going to give you a backrub, ok?”

It sounds almost like a trick question, but Santana doesn’t consider it overmuch. Absently nodding, she sticks the spoon back in her mouth and sucks off sticky chocolate remnants. Her eyes are still glued to the screen and she startles just a little when Brittany’s hands suddenly appear on the bare skin just north of her ass. Her palms are warm and firm and slick, and the smell of baby oil is strong in the air. “Is this ok?” Brittany asks again, hands going still. She nods again, slower, and Brittany kisses the nape of her neck before stroking up and over her ribcage, dragging the shirt up as she goes. It bunches at her shoulders, and Brittany pushes it over them with clumsy knuckles to bare her whole back. It’s all smooth, slow, broad strokes then as she spreads the oil, and Santana sinks into the even, soothing rhythm of her touches.

If her mouth wasn’t full she might even have purred.

She’s gotten through a whole episode before Brittany’s tempo changes. She only really notices because she’s eaten all the fudge and yet another dude she doesn’t give a fuck about is onscreen. Without those distractions, she acutely feels the way Brittany’s fingers slide around to tickle her ribs and she’s 96% sure she hears Brittany humming _Blow_ into her shoulderblade. Her stomach tightens. Brittany nudges behind her ear with her nose affectionately, pressing a kiss to the same spot and trailing more down her neck. It’s intensely tender, and Santana’s head droops forward like Brittany found her off switch. She could definitely stand another hour or seventy years of this.

“Can I move the bowl, San?” Brittany’s voice is as soft as everything else feels right now, and Santana makes an quiet, affirmatively toned moan in response. One greasy hand retracts from her waist so Brittany can wipe it over her chest once, twice, before reaching around Santana to grab her not-quite-finished-but-who-cares snack and set it back on the coffee table. Then both hands are on her hips again and steadily moving towards her belly button. “Can I touch your tummy?”

Now, Santana KNOWS it’s weird that it turns her on when Brittany talks like that (she’s just so beautiful and _innocent_ and sincere and just perfect), and she also knows that Brittany knows it turns her on when she talks like that. So she knows damn well that Brittany knows she can touch her damn stomach, and if she didn’t she would quickly be able to tell Santana’s feelings on the matter from the way she can’t stop herself from rocking her pelvis into the heel she’s sitting on. Brittany skims her lips over the shoulder still bared by her rucked up nightshirt, waiting, and Santana bobbles her head in a fair approximation of a nod. Her skin feels too hot for her to focus on whatever game Brittany is playing at. And she’s not even doing anything yet, really.

Hormones are a _helluva_ drug.

Chin still resting on her chest, Santana finds herself staring at Brittany’s pretty hands as they caress her skin. They splay possessively over her abdomen, trying to touch as much skin as possible all at once. It’s warm and the firm massage really does lessen the pain from the cramps.

“Did the pills help any?” Brittany asks, her voice tranquil and close to Santana’s ear. Honestly, Santana’s pretty sure she’s being handled, but she doesn’t find herself minding very much. She’ll do whatever Brittany wants, so long as she keeps touching her. She kind of wants to do some touching of her own.

So she does. She reaches for Brittany’s wrists and grips lightly, just to hold her. And maybe nudge her hands a tiny bit lower and harder, so that Brittany’s fingertips catch on her hipbones. “A little. But this helps more.”

It’s not like her cramps are crippling or anything. They just don’t really respond to any otc medication she’s ever tried and they tend to leave a constant, dull throbbing feeling that she eventually gets used to. In her experience, the only thing that really helps is getting drunk, getting high, or getting off. And, if she’s being honest with herself, that’s probably why Brittany’s touch helps so much. It’s not even real sexy touching, but her thighs are still kind of clenching and rubbing against each other as Brittany works the pads of her long fingers in circles over her trembling stomach. She waits for Brittany to say something, but Brittany just continues the motion over and over and over and over until she stops feeling self-conscious about it at all.

Brittany lures her closer with insistent pressure just under the waist of her underwear, until her ass is cradled in her lap and her legs are stretched out along the couch. Something with a little too much give to be the blu-ray remote pokes her awkwardly and she’s been surprise Rodeoh’d enough to recognize the weight and feel of Britt’s favorite toy combo (and, ok, so maybe she’s a fan too).

“I know you’re sore all over. I just wanna make you feel good. Tell me what you want.” Brittany breathes in this sonorous purr that Santana feels right between her legs and rolling up and down her spine. And, yeah, she’s for sure being handled, but Brittany is insinuating orgasms and that’s really the only thing that matters.

Still, her nerve shakes when she thinks about what she actually does want Brittany to do. Because Brittany is not subtle - not with her hands splitting their time between stroking her underboobs and the ticklish skin of her inner thighs. But her business being closed for repairs during the red flood has always just been a de facto rule that she’s never actually thought about before.

She takes a fortifying breath, which comes out a little shaky when Brittany’s right hand cups her breast with the same ardent tenderness she used to tuck her into bed after her late/early train trip last night and kiss her awake this morning. She shoves Brittany’s other hand inside her underwear, and even just her fingers skimming clumsily over her is enough to have her rocking her hips for more.

Every part of her body recognizes Brittany’s grin against it, and her neck is no exception. The brush of her lips in that well-worn motion relaxes Santana, shaking off the last of her nervousness. Her head drops back to Brittany’s shoulder, opening herself up to the wet, sucking kisses her girlfriend loves to leave all over her throat. She’s going to be marked all to fuck from them, but she’ll deal.

Brittany runs her fingers through her, testing, and her legs snap shut when fingertips catch against her clit. It makes her hiss, the sensation too sharp and intense too quickly for her to enjoy it. The motion between her legs stops and Brittany nuzzles her cheek, apologetic. Her focuses changes slightly; the hand on Santana’s breast gingerly tickles her skin to gauge her reaction.

“I’ve missed touching you so much,” Brittany breathes. Santana doesn’t feel a pressing need to remind her that they cuddled on the couch for hours today; she knows what she means. The hand on her chest stays light, tentative. Normally it would feel really nice, but Brittany’s hands soaked up the heat of her skin when they touched her - held her - and now the combination of that, the heat radiating off of the thin skin of her breasts, and the barely there touching just makes it feel… itchy and frustrating, mostly. 

It feels weird to have to direct Brittany - to show her how to touch, and where - but she reaches up to guide her hand to cup fully and more solidly. Brittany follows her lead easily, index finger and thumb playing over her nipple experimentally and then with intent when Santana gasps encouragingly. The gentle tugs feel like they’re being mirrored on her clit, like there’s a direct line between the two, and she squirms and reaches one hand behind her to bury in Brittany’s messy hair. The technique switches up: pulsing squeezes to slow twists to a familiar worrying motion between the second knuckle of her pointer and the pad of her thumb over and over. Santana’s hand turns into a fist and she turns her head to bite at Brittany’s jaw, overcome.

“I like touching you like this,” Brittany breathes, eyes fixed on all the bare skin available to her. “It’s like new. I love learning you all over again.”

And she’s not wrong. It is kind of new, for both of them. Santana has touched herself before when she’s on her period, but never like this. Never to explore and enjoy, always with one very specific goal in mind; orgasm as quickly as possible. There was nothing even remotely resembling foreplay; most of the time she was in so much pain or generally feeling so shitty that she didn’t even bother getting aroused - just used some lube and did the work, as mechanical as taking a prescribed pill. And it did work, but it felt nothing like this. She didn’t even know she could feel like this.

She sinks her teeth into Brittany’s jaw again and she’s not sure if she wants to mark her or devour her sweetness like some kind of purity vampire. Brittany butts her head against her affectionately, knocking their temples together, and she almost can’t stand how perfect she is. The hand on her breast withdraws. There's a protest on the tip of her tongue that dies when Brittany sucks both fingers into her mouth, grinning the whole time as Santana stares dopily at the not especially sexy except totally sexy motion. She looks like she’s about to try a wolf whistle with them tucked between her lips like that but instead she just wets them and then quickly flicks them over her nipple, fast enough that the saliva doesn’t have a chance to cool and it’s just warm slipperiness.

She cries out and her clit _throbs_ ; her thighs slam together around Brittany’s hand and her back bows. And, god, of all the subjects Brittany is brilliant at, she’s a savant in the field of her body. Her breasts are tender and sore but Brittany manages to find just the right touch to be _good_ , to feel intense but not spiky and raw. Brittany’s arm crosses over her chest like a seatbelt or a really sexy, muscular, _flexing_ bandolier. The fingers cupping her mound gently shift, middle and pointer sliding over her slit and quickly slicking themselves. 

“You’re so gorgeous Santana.”

The words are satisfied and leonine and Santana wishes she could have recorded them to use as her ringtone - no looped chorus would ever be able to compare. She tugs at Brittany’s hair fitfully, unable to stay still under her eager attentions. It can’t be helped when her hips start rolling faster and the motion coaxes Brittany to touch her more fully.

It’s only two fingers but they’re drenched and they feel like the best sort of sin. There’s no dry, jagged edges when Brittany rolls the pads of her fingers over her clit this time - just silky, even pressure. There’s so much slickness that if she hadn’t literally just _freshened up_ she’d be convinced that it had to be overspill. But it’s not. All of the wetness is just _Brittany_ and the things that she does to her - for her. Her left hand reaches down for an anchor and grips hard onto the meat of Brittany’s thigh, using it to brace herself as she rocks harder into Brittany’s hands and back into Brittany’s crotch.

“Ow, ow. Wait.”

The noise of pain Brittany makes feels like cold water down her spine. Jerking her hands away with a snap, she drops heavily into Brittany’s lap again before trying to crawl away. She’s on her hands and knees before Brittany can stop her, but then she catches her around the waist and drapes over her back. Brittany holds her tight - like she’s hugging with her whole body - and the flaring shame dies down to embers under the soft wet kisses Brittany rains on the nape of her neck.

“It’s ok. It’s ok. I love when you ride my fingers. It made me so wet.” Santana shudders hard. She’s already swept up in the measure and meter of Brittany’s rhythm again, just like that. Brittany slides one arm over her ribs and the other around her hip, quickly starting up a new beat on her clit. “We could try like this?”

She groans, digging her hands into the seam between two couch cushions through the towels and holding on tight. Brittany’s knees are between hers. It keeps her spread wide, just how Brittany wants her. Like, exactly how she wants her - with no leverage to change the pace, only able to follow Brittany’s lead. And Brittany’s lead is going to have her coming embarrassingly fast. Her fingers are rolling over her clit in a well practiced motion that already has her holding her breaths until her face feels hot.

Brittany laughs at her struggle. “You can come baby. We’re not done.” She punctuates with a fluid pump of her hips, grinding the strap-on into Santana’s ass while simultaneously pressing her harder into her fingers. The only response she can make are helpless little high-pitched pants as Brittany rubs with intent. Brittany mouths at her skin wetly, tasting and touching with every dimension, and she comes hard to the feel of Brittany’s teeth nipping softly at her ear.

It feels like all of her muscles lock tight except for her pussy that contracts and relaxes and contracts again around the object that she desperately wishes were Brittany’s fingers. Brittany’s smug grin feels delicious against her skin and she lets herself moan out loud in a way she normally doesn’t. It’s a conscious sound, nothing like the animal noises Brittany releases or the filthy gorgeous words she hisses in the heat of the moment, but it’s no less sincere as currents flow the circuit between them.

Her thighs shake as her body loosens again, her whole torso slumping forward until her chest presses to the towels. Behind her, Brittany settles onto her heels and kisses the bow of her spine. Her hands run over her, plucking the waist of her underwear pointedly.

“You can take ‘em off Britt,” she mumbles into the couch. She wiggles her ass a little, still drained from her orgasm. Brittany needs little enticement though, eagerly tugging the soft microfiber over the swell of her ass and down her legs. It stretches far enough that she doesn’t have to bring her knees back together and Brittany even does all the work of maintaining her balance when she has to raise a knee slightly to slip the fabric the rest of the way. Brittany holds her and shifts her weight just enough to get it over the other knee before drawing them off. 

There’s more movement behind her once her underwear is gone but she just lets Brittany do Brittany, whatever that entails. Right now it’s much easier to luxuriate in the feeling of not being in pain, of actually feeling little shudders of pleasure instead of being constantly tensed in anticipation of another cramp.

“Can I take the shirt off too?” Brittany asks, resting on top of her again. But this time her belly is naked and warm and so soft. Her thighs too, except for the parts covered in the cotton of her harness. And she can tell that Brittany is holding her hips away awkwardly so the strap-on doesn’t press into her skin, like she doesn’t want to remind her that it’s there yet.

She wiggles her butt again, eliciting a fresh smattering of kisses from Brittany up and down her spine. “You can do whatever you want Britt-Britt,” she sighs happily, magnanimous from the simple joy of not _hurting_ for the first time in hours and hours.

“I want to do what _you_ want, Honey. And if I do something you don’t want, you have to tell me, ok?” There’s seriousness in Brittany’s voice, and Santana perks up a little to pay attention. “It’s really important to me that you tell me what you don’t like, baby. I like this, and I want to be able to do it again. But not if it makes you uncomfortable.”

The effort it takes to flop onto her back feels enormous, but it’s well worth it to see the way Brittany’s eyes instantly lock on her tits despite the no-nonsense tone she’d been using. “It’s so hot when you talk like a responsible adult.”

Brittany tears her eyes away from her boobs long enough to roll them. “Be serious. How would you even know what a responsible adult sounds like-”

“True.”

Brittany cuts her a look for interrupting, “- this is just me loving my girlfriend and not wanting to take advantage of her trust.” Her face is all open and guileless. Santana can see herself doing a lot of stupid things for that face.

“You are so sweet and smart,” she gushes, but she can’t help it. Brittany is objectively the best in the history.

“Santana-”

She tugs Brittany down by the waist, nestling her body between her thighs and kissing her solidly. “I promise.” Brittany squeals and smiles exuberantly, kissing over her face with rapid fire pecks. Her hands tug at the shirt that’s still rucked up around her shoulders and she shifts to help her pull it off altogether. When Brittany plops back on top of her it knocks the wind out of her and she laughs even as she wraps her arms and legs around the woman above her to hold her closer still.

They rest together for a few minutes, Brittany’s head on her collar and her hand gently thumbing over her nipple. It’s not enough to get off on, but it’s enough to keep her warm. She strokes her hand over Brittany’s bare back in return and loves the muscle she can feel under her skin. Brittany’s thighs flex against each other languidly, nudging the strap-on into her belly.

She’s suddenly struck by the thought that she has very little clue how to have penetrative sex during her period. She wishes Holly had gone over that in sex ed. Mechanically she knows (assumes) it works like you’d expect; insert tab a into slot b, remove, see step 1. But she can’t wear a tampon for that like she could when Brittany was touching her. And she feels like she’s bleeding even more now than she was before. Is she supposed to, like… have some kind of something to hold the blood back? Is she just supposed to… let it flow? Is there some kind of etiquette for this? She’s kind of pissed, honestly, because someone should have prepared her for this. 

Her hand turns into a fist and she presses it between her girlfriend’s shoulder blades. “Britt, I don’t know what to fucking do,” she bites out, embarrassed by her ignorance again.

Brittany sits up and straddles her low around her hips, until she’s settled right over her pubic bone. Snix is easily distracted from her growing ragefit by the shape of Brittany’s naked body and she lays hands on the perfect curve of her waist. The new harness Brittany wears isn’t really new new - it was an awesome gift a few months back that hasn’t stopped giving - but she’s still pleasantly surprised that it is worlds sexier than the clunky old one she bought with a preloaded visa card online when they were in high school. They look like black and red boyshorts and not even the smallish glittery purple dildo sticking out from the front makes them look awkward.

Flipping her hair over one shoulder, Brittany leans down a little and her hands brace themselves on either side of Santana’s ribcage. “Well,” she drones in her flat “duh” tone, “I’m pretty sure that’s not true.” Pointedly she looks down to where Santana’s hands have already made themselves at home over her breasts. “But, baby, you don’t have to worry about anything. I’m gonna take such good care of you.” Brittany seals the promise with a kiss. It actually makes her feel better, even though she still has no idea what’s expected of her. She just trusts Brittany.

That trust is tried like never before when she feels a tug on the string between her legs. Her girlfriend is watching her face closely, but all she can think about is that it’s so… weird. Weird and intimate and _weird_ to have Brittany involved in something that’s always been so private. But she trusts and nods and Brittany kisses her lips, hard, before pulling away to do the business. Brittany grabs a few tissues off the side table and then pulls the tampon out in one smooth, gentle motion, slick with bright red blood all the way through. She wraps it up and throws it in the trashcan.

“Still ok?” Brittany asks, pressing her lips to the knee she’s resting her hand on.

Santana nods, and Brittany smiles winningly. Hands stroke from her knees to her inner thighs and back again. It makes her clench a little, and Brittany shifts excitedly to her own knees.

With the flats of her palms Brittany smooths over her thighs and then under until she’s gripping her ass. She tugs her forward until Santana’s settled with her butt sort of resting on the incline formed as Brittany sits on her feet, and then reaches to the coffee table again. Santana just lays back, forcing herself to relax and letting Brittany lead the way. Her gaze is curious though, watching Brittany pick up a box she hadn’t really noticed before. She’d thought it was a box of tissues, but Brittany sticks two fingers in the top and pulls out a black latex glove. Why the fuck does Brittany have a bulk box of latex gloves? Why does Brittany have an _open_ box of bulk latex gloves?

Brittany pulls the glove over her right hand with a snap, pleased as punch with herself. And it’s strange because Santana has had Dr. Pierce fantasies before but they’ve always been of a “making scores of young, brilliant, worshipful PhD students jealous that she’s sleeping with the hot teacher” variety rather than a medical version. She figures it’s a combination of her dad being a medical doctor and doing all that volunteer work in high school, but she’s just never really gotten why other people have medical kinks. Until now.

“I know it looks funky but I tried it out yesterday and it definitely still feels good.”

There’s a lot of things in that sentence that she wants to question but all that comes out is, “Wait, you masturbated wearing disposable gloves?”

Brittany smirks, flexing her fingers slowly. “I had to test it to make sure I could provide high quality orgasms with them on. I have a reputation, you know.” Then she turns a little shy, nervous, and Santana is smitten again (and again and again and again). “After you called from the train I looked some stuff up, just in case. This is safer for you.”

Santana grabs for Brittany’s bare hand and Brittany stretches to provide, smile fond as Santana presses her lips to the palm and each knuckle in turn. Slowly she leads her hand down, resting it over her navel before letting go again. “Well, show me your moves,” she drawls, more excited than she thought she would be. Brittany’s enthusiasm is catching.

The tilt of her hips has gravity doing its job for the moment, but the way Brittany touches her thighs has her tightening unconsciously and she knows it’s only a matter of time. Her left leg wraps limp around Brittany’s waist and Brittany lifts her right and drapes it over the back of the couch. Spread open, she can’t help but shiver at how much more intense everything feels; everything from Brittany’s exploratory first touches to the weight of her stare makes her breaths feel heavy and shallow in her chest.

The glove feels foreign against her skin. It drags over her mound until Brittany presses into her folds, but once it slides through her it feels smoother than anything she’s ever felt before. Her breath comes out in a shudder of surprise and Brittany smiles to split her face. “I know, right?”

She’s still flushed from their last tryst and Brittany just rubs her slowly at first. Her pussy feels sensitive but not overly so; it mostly just feels hot and flush and _wet_. Brittany runs two fingers over her clit, covering it warm and gentle and wholly, before dragging down and pressing just barely at her entrance with one fingertip. She nods before Brittany even asks, throwing one hand behind her to keep steady.

Every part of her just wants Brittany to fucking go for it - she aches for the feel of Brittany inside her - but when Brittany presses in with her index finger she’s really glad that Brittany clearly has better sense than she does. Just the one finger two knuckles deep inside is a stretch. Brittany draws out and then presses back in slowly, a little bit more each time, twisting and curled just a bit to drag against her inside with each upstroke. She goes so carefully, and the rapt expression on her face makes Santana even wetter.

“You feel so different San. Like… fuller. So tight,” Brittany shares, her voice a low rumble in the back of her throat. “You’re so hot and wet - you’re squeezing _so tight_.” Naked as Brittany is, Santana can see how turned on she’s getting; her light skin is red from navel to nose and she might as well be sitting on a furnace for all the heat radiating off her girlfriend right now. It’s a rush to know that she can turn Brittany on without doing anything at all.

For long moments Brittany drags in and out at a measured pace. Santana’s always felt that Brittany’s hands were made for her in every way but now it’s like she can feel her fucking fingerprint with how totally filled she is. Brittany’s finger twists and flexes with slick, wet noises, working her open purposefully. Indolently she rocks up and down into Brittany’s guiding hands. Her toes curl with every slow thrust; a steady build until she feels like she can take more.

When she catches Brittany’s eye she doesn’t even have to voice the request on the tip of her tongue. She can see the flare in her gaze and feels her slowly pull her finger out completely. A trickle of liquid accompanies the motion and her heel digs into Brittany’s ass reflexively as it tickles south.

Brittany sighs raggedly, her gaze fixed on her own hand as she gently plays her index and middle finger against Santana’s pussy. She licks her lips and her eyes dart up to watch Santana’s face as she starts to slide inside with a slow twisting motion.

It feels good, thick and solid and warm. She lets her mouth fall open and doesn’t hold the tiny, high noises behind her teeth, hand gripping harder onto the couch arm as Brittany slips deeper. The stretch isn’t like anything she’s felt in a long time, if ever. It’s not painful but it’s present and they’re both acutely aware of how different this feels than the usual; Brittany watches her face while she focuses on the feel of Brittany inside her. 

It isn’t until Brittany has pushed in so far that her palm is almost cupping her mound that they hit a bump. There’s a twinge of pain and Brittany is pulling back before Santana can do more than grimace slightly. She doesn’t pull out but she stops her hands, waiting for Santana to give her a go ahead with a face that’s all sad puppy sympathy. “It’s ok,” she breathes, rolling her hips a little to encourage Brittany to move again. “Just not so deep.”

Brittany makes the sweetest little pout. Gingerly she shuffles on her knees, careful to not jostle her fingers too much while shifting to leave Santana laying flat on her back. Brittany straddles her right leg and slips the hand not buried two knuckles deep behind her head to cradle it. The new position is a plus - it keeps Brittany from being able to reach as far - but Santana is struck by how much hotter she feels now, with Brittany’s chest against hers and her face so much closer. She’s not trying to be, like, a giant girl about it or anything but this is definitely better.

Brittany starts again, slowly, scissoring her fingers and making Santana gasp. She’s so full that Brittany’s fingers are a constant pressure on her g-spot even though she isn’t aiming for it yet. There’s a rolling pulse all up and down her body that only gets more satisfying as she clenches and squeezes against Brittany inside her. She can feel echos of it in the tightening of Brittany’s thighs around her leg, and she reaches down with one hand to slide under the fabric of the harness and take a firm grip of her ass.

The husky “Fuck, San!” that follows has her panting like a dog and so much closer to coming than she was before.

They move together, rocking back and forth and trading sloppy kisses. It’s like an echo chamber; every fevered grunt from Brittany makes Santana’s nails scrape over her skin, every held breath makes Brittany’s thrusts more determined. She clings to Brittany and Brittany clutches her in turn, both of them holding so tight Santana thinks they might blend together like handfuls of clay. There’s a thrum all through her that Brittany plays like a first chair violin. Brittany’s hips grind down on her leg to the same rhythm her fingers touch and Santana encourages her with the hand on her ass, squeezing and scratching. It gets faster and faster, and she’s holding her breath, waiting for it to break - heat flaring between her legs, in her chest, up her throat, behind her eyelids - and then Brittany’s hand stops; her fingers rigid and curled roughly upwards into the spot that makes Santana want to throw her head back and watch the colors burst behind her eyes. But then there’s no follow up and Santana can feel her orgasm receding and - it’s not something she’s proud of - she gets pissed.

“Brittany, what the fuuuuck?!” she groans out, spitefully clawing down Brittany’s arm. Brittany gasps but doesn’t reply, too busy sucking in heavy breaths and burying her face in Santana’s neck and _quaking_ , almost collapsed on top of the woman beneath her. “Oh my god, Brittany. Did you just-”

Brittany grunts into her clavicle, hips rolling into the leg she’s still straddling with all the strength in her dancer thighs. And certain persons may make jokes about Santana’s infernal heritage, but she’s not an _actual_ monster. She lets go of the couch and slides her fingers quickly into Brittany’s shorts, two inside and her thumb on her clit. Brittany groans greedily and bounces on her fingers in short, jerky bursts, riding out the last of her orgasm before she buries Santana under her dense, sweaty weight.

“‘M sorry. Need a min’te,” Brittany mumbles into her shoulder, and any lingering sour feelings Santana might have had sweeten up like lemonade. She even laughs a little at the pathetic picture Brittany makes, all worn out and limp from coming. Brittany doesn’t open her eyes when she hears her, just smiles lazily at the sound. “L’ve y’ur laugh,” she slurs, pressing a clumsy, blind kiss to the top of the breast under her cheek.

Chuckling, Santana tucks Brittany’s messy hair behind her ear. Everything in her is fondness and love and frustrated arousal. “So is this ‘a minute’ like that time you said you needed a minute to go pee after you drank all that tequila and you ended up taking off your pants and hiding under a coffee table to sleep?”

The fingers inside her crook and her legs jerk like she’s a puppet and Brittany yanked on her strings. The lazy smile on her face is thrillingly self-satisfied, like she knows full well that even if she did come first and Santana teases her about it, she’s still the best Santana will ever have. “Mmm,” she hums, “More like that time I drank all the tequila and made you dance naked with me in the automatic sprinklers at the rec center and then talked you into having sex in the mud.”

It’s her own fault, really, that Brittany’s head is so big. She can’t argue with truth though. “That was fun.” 

Brittany makes an affirmative noise, heaving herself semi-upright. She pecks Santana with careless lips, more nuzzle than kiss. “You felt so good. I could feel you holding me in and it was so sexy and wet,” she murmurs with her tongue super close. “And you’re so hot. It felt like you were burning me up, in a good way. I really like how you feel now.”

It’s hard _not_ to feel sexy when someone as luminous as Brittany looks at her like that while saying those sorts of things in that kind of tone. She extracts her hand from inside the harness to the sound of Brittany’s whining, quickly hushed by the sudden indirect pressure of the base of her dildo pressing back into her as Santana jerks it firmly. Santana raises an eyebrow pointedly, waiting for Brittany to make her next move.

Thankfully, that seems to have found Brittany her second wind. She looks at Santana like she can’t believe Christmas came early. “Are you sure you can take it baby?” She says it in this low, Jessica Rabbit voice that should sound ridiculous but it doesn’t because she is so fucking guileless about this particular subject. Nodding wordlessly, Santana settles back and gives herself up to Brittany again.

Brittany slips her fingers out from inside of her easily, despite how hard she reflexively clamps down. She knows there’s blood on the gloves, but the latex is dark enough that she can’t really tell. Brittany though, she runs her fingers together - curious and fascinated by this new facet. It seems like she comes back from wherever her mind has wandered on her own, eventually, and then she’s grasping her pearlescent attachment and guiding the tip inside. There’s more than enough wetness to make the insertion painless, but Brittany goes slow anyway. It’s all incremental; short, smooth rolls of her hips that push just a little bit more inside with each thrust. It keeps Santana relaxed enough that the almost _too_ full sensation is powerful, but not overwhelming. Once she’s in as far as she plans to go Brittany carefully peels off the glove, turning it inside out before absently tossing it behind her in the general direction of the trashcan. 

Santana appreciates the supplemental wetness between her legs now. Everything is silky and fluid, from the drag of Brittany inside her to the building, unbroken rhythm of Brittany’s body between her thighs. She wraps her legs around Brittany loosely with her ankles resting against each other between Brittany’s knees and her hands rest at the smallest part of her waist. The way she can feel the supple strength in Brittany’s motions makes her toes curl. “Feels so good Britt,” she sighs encouragingly.

Brittany nips at her lips affectionately as she works her back up. She’s not rough about it - every motion is planned, pointed, and unrushed so that Santana feels everything. Normally penetration alone doesn’t get her very far, and not nearly as high as Brittany’s mouth and fingers working in tandem, but this is definitely worlds away from normal. Everything feels more intense, more detailed - she can feel each of the gentle ribs on Brittany’s toy as it pulls out and pushes back in, her insides clutching and molding around each ridge. She forgets to breathe sometimes - so caught up in sensation that only feels more intense as her brain goes fuzzy - and Brittany kisses her cheeks over and over and over again, both hands reaching up to meet at the crown of her head.

Everything is quiet, the only sound the joining of their bodies. Brittany watches her carefully and she kisses her bottom lip when she starts to feel dizzy, which doesn’t really help. Santana can feel her pulse in her whole body and her hands turn to claws around Brittany’s waist, nails digging in as her orgasm gets closer.

Brittany takes the opportunity to move just a little faster, a little harder. It makes Santana’s arms and legs tighten and she feels like she wants to shrink down until Brittany surrounds her completely. She curls into the smothering body above her and buries her face in Brittany’s damp skin, just holding on as ripples build into waves in her belly. The crest comes and she rides it until it pulls her under and she can’t breathe; until all she can do is feel _Brittany Brittany Brittany_ against her and inside her until she’s there even behind the red veil of her own eyelids. The motion inside her doesn’t stop and she feels another wave roll through. Blindly, she anchors herself to Brittany as she’s pulled under again. Her brain feels like it’s floating away and her face burns and there are tingles in her fingers and toes.

“Baby, breathe.” It’s a sharp command that’s like fireworks behind her eyes and between her legs. Desperately she sucks in swampy, thick air - anything for Brittany not to stop. “I won’t honey, I’m not,” Brittany answers, and Santana figures she must be a little bit delirious because she didn’t think she even had the air to say anything out loud. 

It goes on for a long time - long enough that Brittany has to remind her that oxygen exists twice more - until she’s so wrung out she can’t even manage to cleave onto Brittany anymore. She’s limp and sated and just… giddy. Brittany is all sticky and solid on top of her and her hands are smoothing over her damp hairline and everything just feels so slow and easy. And best of all, she only has to crane just the barest fraction to get Brittany’s lips on hers whenever she wants and Brittany makes these happy little hums that vibrate inside her skull like the last notes of a favorite song. Their breasts just barely graze where Brittany is propped up on her elbows and that’s nice too.

“Hmmmm,” Brittany smiles, rubbing their noses together gently. “I think we should maybe shower so we can eat leftovers and watch more girls in chains.”

Santana frowns, torn between the idea of moving and the prospect of showering with Brittany. Especially now that the actual sex is over and what was sexy before is now mostly just wet and cold. She nods and watches with lazy hunger as Brittany heaves herself off the couch, still naked and glorious with smears of red on her abs. It strikes her as strangely sexy, the bright swatches of something uniquely _her_ painted on the canvas of Brittany. Brittany peels the harness off and chucks it on the towels covering the last seat cushion, revealing still more tacky red that seeped through the fabric.

She’s not all the way back to earth yet - still quiet and more touch than talk - and Brittany doesn’t force it. Grinning, Brittany reaches down to take her hands and lift her to her feet, steadying her dazed footsteps with both hands around her waist. “I’m gonna carry you, ok?” It’s phrased like a question but it’s mostly just a warning as Brittany slips one arm behind the back of her knees and sweeps her off her feet. Santana just holds on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's significantly more blood in this one, with bonus oral and squirting. Fair warning!

It’s hard to stop kissing Santana long enough to turn on the shower, but Brittany manages. The cold tile helps.

“Do you need a shower cap?” She still finds Santana’s involved hair care regimen totally confusing. Santana has some weird sixth hair sense that she just can’t emulate. As far as she’s concerned, her hair has two modes: runway and Deepwater Horizon. Santana’s hair has like a million subtle variations and most of them involve products with “Tonic” and “Jojoba” and “Treatment” in the name. This time, Santana just shakes her head sleepily, resting on the edge of the tub and leaning against the wall. “Do you want me to wash your hair?” she tries next. 

“I’m cold.” Now she’s pretty sure Santana has stopped listening entirely, too distracted by her discomfort to pay any mind to anything that doesn’t involve fixing it. Santana reaches out for her blindly, stretching her hand behind her and whining like a fussy baby searching for a dropped soother. When she moves close enough to touch, Santana makes an irritated noise and twists her upper body into her, pulling her closer and then mashing her face into her stomach. Right into a smear of red that hasn’t completely dried, and the face Santana makes when she realizes that is priceless. 

She swipes at her face but it only makes it worse, streaking it like warpaint along the softness of her cheeks. It gives her an almost feral look - like one of Peter Pan’s lost boys - and Brittany likes it. She catches Santana’s hands before she can smudge it any more and holds them still, stroking her palms with her thumbs and kissing her softly. The sweet/stale taste of her breath is like a sense memory, recalling the warm feeling of waking up to Santana’s even exhales tickling her bangs.

Santana shivers - from cold, not from kissing - and Brittany runs her hands over her shoulders briskly for a moment to work some warmth into her. The bathroom isn’t quite steamy yet, but they’re already naked so there’s no use waiting. She steps into the spray first, hissing a little as the hot water stings and then soothes as she gets used to it on the scratches tracking down her back. There’s a bright, bright shock of red running down the white inside of the tub from between Santana’s legs and she likes the contrast so much that she’s almost sad when she has to shift her body to help Santana up and the water starts to wash it away. But it doesn’t matter as much as coaxing Santana to stop making that clenched teeth face she gets when she’s upset and doesn’t know it yet - it’s the step right before tears and/or yelling starts - so she dances them around a little to trade positions with her in the narrow space they have to navigate.

The almost scalding water improves Santana’s mood instantly and obviously, her body relaxing from its hunched position to soak in the heat like a snake on a hot rock. She even makes a little hiss noise as she sucks her teeth and wraps her arms around Brittany again. Honestly, Brittany still isn’t convinced she’s not part lizard - as far as she can tell Santana lacks any ability to maintain a normal human body temperature without leeching it from an outside source. But it makes Santana extra cuddly, so she can’t complain.

She lets her get the worst of the chill off before guiding Santana’s head back to start the long and involved process of soaking her hair ( _Never Hot Water_ she remembers, but she thinks this might be an acceptable exception, just this once). Carefully she washes the blood off her cheek with her thumb before running her fingers through the thick locks, digging furrows through the heavy weight of it. The mass of it works like duck feathers to shield Santana’s scalp, so she’s sure to work her fingers all the way to the roots. She knows she’s done when Santana moves her head out of the spray and tucks it against the crook of her neck, her soft lips pressing even more softly against her there.

When Santana’s hands move to hold her around her waist she jerks a little, the light stroke of fingertips tickling at her navel. They start to rub up and down, and she presses her forehead to Santana’s to watch the water run light pink down the drain as her girlfriend washes her clean. “There’s so much,” Santana says softly, but Brittany doesn’t think it’s all that much, really. Especially considering the state of the towels she left on the couch. There are a few little spatters on her stomach, and some smears where she absently rubbed her skin after handling the soaked harness. There’s more between her legs and Santana cups her there to catch the water in her palm, pouring it over her again and again until the water is mostly clear. She drapes her arms over Santana’s shoulders and rests her chin on her bowed head, letting her mind fill in from touch and memory the way Santana’s small, dark hands look against her own pale thighs and short blond hair.

The shower patters against the back of her forearms. It soothes the superficial scratches there that were starting to dry out and get itchy as they heal. The ones on her shoulders and down her back sting as she stretches and she wonders if they bled, too.

Santana sighs, splaying her fingers over her stomach again and almost kneading at her, testing the resistance. “Your abs are super important to me Britt.” 

She can’t tell if Santana’s serious or not but she laughs either way. Plush lips kiss over her clavicle to rest at the hollow of her throat and she hopes Santana can feel her happiness there.

“I love them so much I want it in the prenup that if you lose them I can divorce you,” Santana continues, trailing more kisses up, up, up until she’s kissing her chin.

She pretends to consider it, tilting her head back ostensibly in thought - really she just wants more of what Santana’s doing right now - before speaking. “What if there’s a horrible accident and I have to have them amputated?”

If she didn’t know any better she’d think Santana’s horrified gasp was legit - she could be such a good actress if she wanted to be. The heel of Santana’s hand jabs against her side once, and then again for good measure. “Don’t even joke about that!” Then Santana pets over her belly gently, like it’s an entirely separate animal from the rest of her that needs to be soothed after the things it’s just heard.

“Ok but like, what if I was in an accident and the doctors were like, ‘Should we save her abs or her legs?’ what would you pick?”

It’s not the best joke she’s ever made, so she’s not totally surprised when Santana doesn’t answer. She only realizes what a terrible mistake she’s made when Santana goes from zero to hysterical in three point two seconds.

Maybe she doesn’t actually know any better.

“Why would you say that!?” The pitch of Santana’s voice can only be called a wail, a lamentation; it’s the sort of noise you’d hear in the aftermath of a natural disaster. And it’s so sudden and so LOUD that she finds herself at a total loss. Her heart stutter stops in her chest at the shock of it and it takes a few missed beats to start again. The force of her sobbing makes Santana’s face bright crimson and Brittany’s afraid she might actually start hyperventilating. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” 

The pitiful apologies that spill out between her cries make Brittany’s heart break, and she gathers Santana up in her arms and squeezes tight. “No, I’m sorry baby. That was a stupid stupid joke. You’re fine.”

“I’m not fine, I’m crazy and I can’t stop crying and my skin is so oily!” Santana sobs again, and Brittany picks Santana off her feet and sways back and forth patiently. Slowly, slowly, Santana’s cries die down to sniffles and her body relaxes, falling into the motion easily. Her heavy dark head comes to rest on her shoulder, and Brittany rests her own head against it until she feels like maybe Santana’s calmed down enough to not immediately burst into tears again once she’s anchored to earth. With infinite care she settles Santana back onto her feet, hugging her as close as possible like she can squeeze the hurt out.

But as the sadness leaves, it’s replaced with anger. Brittany can feel Santana’s body go rock hard and sharp kitten nails come out to scrape lightly against her sides. Her mouth opens before she really thinks about it. “Did I tell you about how the sink was broken when I moved in?” She asks, like it’s a question. It’s not, really, because she knows she didn’t tell Santana. But she barrels on anyway. “I called my aunt and she was like ‘there’s probably a gap in the u-bend’ and then once she explained what that was she said to get a bucket before I unscrewed it to check. So I put the bucket under the pipe and I took it off and all the water poured into the bucket and I was like ‘ok, that was easy.’ and then I was going to put it back on and tape it up and I decided to empty the bucket first so I wouldn’t knock it over. So I dumped it in the sink.” 

It takes a second, but then Santana huffs one brief chuckle and Brittany trades her a soft peck in return. “I know what you’re trying to do and it’s not working. Now I just feel stupid and kind of turned on. Did you wear a toolbelt?”

Brittany licks the tip of Santana’s nose and grins at the way her whole face scrunches up. She shakes her head and shuffles her feet a little, just to feel Santana’s skin slide against her own. “I didn’t, but you wanna put ‘home repairs in appropriate costume” in the prenup too? I’m down for that. I’ll even contractually agree to ‘fix your plumbing’ for free whenever you want.”

She can roll her eyes all she wants, Brittany knows that Santana is totally down for that too. 

The wet hair clinging to Santana’s cheeks gives Brittany a ready distraction and she starts to gather it up to be washed. She’s already moved all of Santana’s beauty supplies into the shower caddy, including the hefty bottle of shampoo that reads like the pitch of a snake oil salesman. But it must be as magic as the name says it is, because Santana swears by it and her hair feels like silk when it drags over Brittany’s skin. It smells like an explosion at a candy cane factory though.

Santana’s quiet the whole time Brittany goes through the - frankly - arduous task of washing and conditioning her hair. Sometimes she forgets how much effort Santana goes through to look so put together all the time. The weight and length of it makes her arms tired, but still the best part by far is brushing out the tangles, Brittany thinks. Santana goes soft and drowsy as Brittany works her way through the gentle snarls, starting at the bottom until the brush slides through and then moving to the middle of the length. She’s as gentle as she can be, remembering the way Santana’d commiserated with Mercedes about their “tenderheaded”-ness one Troubletones sleepover. When she finally gets to the roots she continues the same long stroking motion, running the rounded heads of the brush pins against her scalp and all the way to the tips of her hair over and over again. It makes Santana shiver with pleasure every few strokes and a satisfied reverb runs through Brittany in turn. Eventually she has to stop though, since Santana’s conditioner can actually make her hair too soft (she’s not sure how that’s even possible, but she trusts Santana to know what’s best).

“Sorry I ruined the mood,” Santana says suddenly with her timid, candy-sweet voice, eyes closed to the water raining down on the top of her head. The emptiness behind it hurts Brittany’s heart a little bit more, and she grabs Santana’s chin and kisses her firmly.

There are many things she loves about Santana - hundreds of them were even imperfectly delineated one lonely night in Cambridge along all the empty margins of a Pure Mathematics text - and high on the list is how pliable she can be. Her mouth opens to Brittany like she said the magic words, but she never has to say anything at all. When Brittany grasps her chin, holds her head still or twists it this way and that to get the right seal of their lips, Santana follows her lead like Lord Tubbington follows cheese. It wakes up something inside Brittany’s chest, something that slept for a long time and arose hungry. 

She tries to kiss “I love you” and “thank you for caring so much” and “most of all I wish it from myself” into Santana’s heart - at the very least, she wants to get across her intent to make Santana cry out for entirely different reasons.

Tentatively, Santana’s hands reach for her. One rests on her ass and the other seeks out her breast, palming both with unusual shyness. Brittany rocks into her touch encouragingly but tries not to get overly greedy. She has to carefully husband her arousal - where Santana can come over and over and the only limit is how much she can stand, Brittany’s pretty one and done until she recharges. And she’s already had one orgasm sneak up on her today.

Santana’s fingers pinch at her nipple and Brittany bites her lips in return. There’s the faintest resistance in Santana - wrestling the desire to have her mouth where her hand currently is - but she doesn’t pull out of Brittany’s grasp, and she rewards her with gentle nips to her jaw and down her throat. Her hand trails a mirrored path on the opposite side of Santana’s face, gripping possessively at the nape of her neck.

She doesn’t notice that Santana has backed them into the wall until she feels the shock of cold tile on her arm. The body beneath her shivers hard at the chill, but Santana still whines piteously when Brittany takes her mouth away to grab the retractable showerhead from its base. She redirects the spray to waterfall down the surface of the wall, maneuvering Santana’s skin from the surface until it’s warmed up sufficiently. It’s unsurprising when Santana scratches at her with a hint of bite, petulant and sulky that she’s not getting the attention she wants, and maybe she’s part cat too. The idle thought gets Brittany kind of hot, honestly, and she adds “collar with a bell” to her sexy time props list.

The expanse of Santana’s bared neck has all sorts of lovely marks in various stages of bruising. All the sort of marks that were _verboten_ for a long time; evidence that lingered and damned. It’s practically art now, red flecks and dark purple blooming like flowers in a meadow. Brittany finds it edifying - satisfying - and she lingers over her works.

“I’m going to need so much makeup after this, aren’t I?” Santana says rhetorically, hands sweeping up to cover her throat much too late.

Brittany grins, tugging Santana’s hands away and holding them above her head with one of her own. “Yuuuup,” she drawls with a pop, pleased beyond the telling of it. 

Her free hand tickles down Santana’s wrist to her elbow to her shoulder and down down down to sweep around her ribs. All the long, lean plane of her body is visible. There’s a trickle of scarlet winding down her smooth leg and she doesn’t resist the urge to dip her fingers in it, painting a line from inside Santana’s thigh to the outside of her hip. She shifts her body to protect her efforts from the hot water and slides two fingers between Santana’s legs. Santana’s sinewy thighs clench around her hands reflexively, but she learns from experience and grazes over her gently.

She touches Santana and it’s so slick and soft. The blood is hot in the way that makes her instinctively want to pull away, like it might scald her. It’s not like regular arousal, but it’s not like water either. It’s somewhere in between. She’s fascinated by it; drenching her middle and pointer in this animal essence of Santana, rubbing them against her thumb to luxuriate in the rich mixed gloss that coats them. 

The even, warm stretch of Santana’s belly calls to her and she spoils it with gusto, sketching a big, curled loop with one finger - _ink_ tapering off at the bottom - and a mirror image with the other. Santana tries to see her art when it’s finished, but pinned as she is she can’t get the right angle and Brittany can’t help but grin at her frustration. With a smooth roll she presses her stomach into Santana, before the sketch dries, and Santana laughs before she even sees the faint, imperfect transposition of a heart around Brittany’s navel.

Charmed and pretending she’s totally not, Santana ducks her head and gives Brittany's chin a kind of affectionate headbutt. “You’re fucking ridiculous, you know that?”

“Hmm. Well, I don’t know who Ridiculous is, but I’m definitely not fucking them.” Santana laughs and swears and tries to step on her foot. She misses, of course, since Brittany isn’t being held to the wall and she saw it coming anyway.

Santana chuckles, equal parts annoyed and smitten. “Asshole.” 

Beaming, Brittany pokes the tip of her tongue out at Santana through her teeth. Her idle hand dips into the inkwell again, and she draws a childish flower next. The petals fill themselves in, kind of, as the red drips. 

She realizes she’s stalling, a little. Santana knows that Brittany has plans, expects Brittany to get bored of her playing and finally sink her fingers inside or turn the showerhead onto her clit and let the water pulse; she’s letting Brittany take control because she trusts that Brittany will make her come, eventually, some how. But what Brittany wants, more than anything, is to be on her knees before Santana - like a votary before her metaphorical altar, a lone worshipper at the feet of a literal goddess.

(She still regrets never managing to steal Santana’s costume from that horrible music video Rachel made them do sophomore year.)

So far it’s been _so_ easy; like everything else about Santana the blood just turns her on more. It smells like nothing until it’s been on skin for a little while, and then it’s just sharp, clean pennies. It feels like liquid satin and it’s bright red and dark crimson in turns - the kind of shades that Santana always wears well. But now she wants to know what it tastes like, and it’s a little bit scary. What if she doesn’t like it? What if she doesn’t like it and she makes a face and Santana _knows_ she doesn’t like it? 

Like most things in her life, she decides not to overthink it and dabs her sticky finger to her tongue. Santana wrinkles her nose as she theatrically smacks her lips, but it doesn’t taste of much of anything. Sample size too small, most likely. Biting the bullet, she sucks both fingers into her mouth and truly appreciates.

It tastes exactly like it smells, or maybe it smells exactly like it tastes. It’s inoffensive, almost taste neutral, and she doesn’t know exactly what she expected. Honestly, it’s a lot like the taste of Santana’s underarms; salty and satisfying for no reason but that it’s so intimately Santana. She rolls her tongue around the base of her fingers and then draws them out to lap at the pads. Santana lets out this tiny, strangled moan as she finishes. That noise alone makes it all worth it.

Humming, she runs her tongue along her teeth and the roof of her mouth. “I like it,” she decides. “A lot. Can I kiss you now? It’s ok if you don’t want me to.”

The hands still in her grasp rotate before Santana gets a rein on her excitement again, and then she just nods with her lips parted invitingly. She winds her tongue into her warm mouth at the same time she glides her index finger through the heat between Santana’s legs. The shuddery little sigh that slips from Santana’s lungs is like fire breathed in reverse, a blaze that fills her belly and settles into smoldering coals.

Santana’s breasts press against her and she wants to touch them too, but Santana is super grabby and she’s pretty sure if she lets her hands go they’re going to be very distracting. “San”- she starts, but her girlfriend is relentlessly avid in her affections and is already craning her neck to reseal their lips before she can get out more than that. She grins and kisses back and almost forgets what she’s doing. Santana is so good at sweet kisses. “San, I need you to behave. Hands to yourself.”

The pout on Santana’s face could break the hardest heart, and Brittany’s heart is basically marshmallow fluff for her. “Bijou, no,” Santana whines petulantly, mouth tight and drawn. It cracks her resolve, just a little.

“Above the neck only,” she allows, kissing the frown off her face. It mollifies Santana, but as soon as her hands are released one goes straight to the hair at the nape of her neck where the shivers come hardest and the other gently worries her earlobe in a way that makes it clear she’s following the letter and not the spirit of her admonishment.

The cheekiness stokes the coals and she kisses down Santana’s sharp jaw, her stretched throat, and over the topography of her collar bones. For a minute she just presses her face into the perfect yield of Santana’s heavy chest, which isn’t the best idea because she ends up kind of smothering herself a little in her wet cleavage. Lesson learned, she shifts her focus to the more sensitive tips and wraps her lips around the closest one. The skin tightens in her mouth and she can _feel_ it with her lips and tongue. There’s a light, bitter taste of body lotion still and she drinks it in, lapping until the tang fades and there is only the savor of Santana’s warm, unadorned skin. 

It feels like her stomach is hollow and she just wants to fill it with the taste of Santana Santana Santana, but no matter how much she gets she won’t ever be full. She fills her mouth with Santana’s ample chest and her girlfriend clings to her head, nails digging in behind her ears and pulling her flush.

She lets Santana overwhelm her, curl over and draw her in and hold her close. Her girlfriend usually likes a little teeth, but she’s so careful to just use lips and tongue and the lightest sucking now, keeping as soft and gentle as she can. She’s so gentle that Santana’s claws even retract, her body relaxing down to the bones. Cupping Santana’s other breast in her palm, she applies only the faintest pressure and swipes at her nipple with her thumb. Like a mantra, she repeats over and over to herself that this is more massage then foreplay - even though touching Santana’s boobs is her favorite foreplay. It’s also her favorite postplay and midplay.

Santana’s thighs clench around her other hand and she remembers that she was doing something else. Sexual multitasking has always been hard, especially when she wants to do everything at once. Slowly, she makes a beckoning motion at the base of Santana’s clit, hooking two fingers under it and firmly stroking the hidden shaft. Almost immediately she feels all of Santana’s weight around her neck as her knees buckle, as well as a rush of hot blood running over the curl of her knuckles and down the back of her hand. She pulls away from Santana’s breast to watch the blood drip from her wrist to the shower floor; brilliant ruby for a bright split second before the water muddles it pinker and paler and it fades away.

It’s easy for her to shore Santana up between the wall and her own body, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other holding her between her legs. She kisses her way back up to Santana’s mouth, breathing in her airy noises like maybe she can lock them away in her own lungs for safekeeping, and she thinks that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to never stop kissing. But the water heater will give out eventually and Santana will make that tragic face, so she doesn’t let herself get distracted by the way Santana’s sneaky hands try to keep their lips together.

“Please, make me come,” Santana breathes against her tongue in that soft, pleading tone that mashes every one of Brittany’s buttons. It’s all she can do not to sink her fingers deep into Santana immediately and give her exactly what she asks for so sweetly - knowing that Santana is playing her like a fiddle only makes it hotter - but she thinks she can do better if only...

Brittany kisses her hard and slides her hand from waist to thigh. “Can I use my mouth?”

She doesn’t expect Santana’s assent so quickly but that’s exactly what she gets. Santana raises her leg even as Brittany falls to her knees, making space for her to fit between and beneath and settling her thigh comfortably on Brittany’s shoulder. It’s a position that warms Brittany all the way through and she settles her hands around Santana’s waist again, turning her eyes heavenward to meet that haughty, heavy stare and feeling every inch the supplicant at her feet. Her eyes flutter when Santana scrapes her claws over her scalp, holding her hair back and out of the way and applying a gentle but pointed pressure.

There’s no hesitance when she sinks her mouth into Santana, licking up to her clit and tasting new metal and familiar lust. She fastens her lips around it and sucks, pressing the flat of her tongue against the underside. The body above shakes and shudders and she grips hard at Santana’s rolling hips. 

All of Santana’s pleasured sighs sound like music; the perfect accompaniment to the rhythm she’s setting with her mouth. Santana leads her with insistent tugs at her hair - harder, softer, faster, deeper. She sings, “Oh, Britt Britt, yes, there,” and Brittany does as she’s bid. It builds in Santana but Brittany can feel it too. The pressure of Santana’s heel against her back, the flex or her abs, the bow of her spine as she curls over her again with the draw of her muscles. Brittany presses her own thighs together in sympathetic arousal.

The shower runs down Santana’s belly and Brittany’s face and into her mouth. It mixes with Santana’s blood and arousal and it trails straight down her middle, leaving a gout of watercolor flame in its wake that mirrors the burn inside her. She squeezes Santana’s ass and feels insatiable. Pulling her harder into her mouth, opening wider to taste more, humming with satisfaction as Santana gets even wetter - she thinks she might never stop doing exactly this.

She can time how close Santana is by the seconds between her breaths - the pauses stretch longer and longer like summer days the closer she gets - and she knows that Santana’s trying to push herself over the edge, nails scratching as she gets frustrated but can’t tell what she wants. Brittany thinks that she knows though. When she feels like there are too many heartbeats between Santana’s gasps she slides her right hand down and up, working in shallowly with her index finger until Santana is panting quickly and clenching hard around her. 

It’s a reaction that pleases the part of Brittany that glows when a theory stands up to replication. And Santana has always been her favorite field of study.

She twists her hand until it’s palm up, curling her finger until Santana jerks and whimpers. She doesn’t intend to do more than apply gentle pressure, afraid to cross over that blurry line where it’s too much, but Santana grabs the wrist of her left hand and drags it low on her belly. The heel of her hand is resting just over Santana’s pubic bone in an achingly familiar position and she moans at how badly she didn’t realize she wanted this, too.

She starts off easy, keeping most of the pressure internal and gauging Santana’s reactions carefully. The stroking motion she adopts makes Santana bite her lip until it turns white, but she doesn’t see discomfort in her morning coffee eyes. Just faith and fire and fierce love, all written out in the scratches she drags at the nape of her neck.

Santana is so soft and slick, Brittany has to break her mouth away to look. The blood comes more freely now, and it looks like so much more than she rationally knows it is. It pools in her palm, a garnet basin fed by the blood trickling down her life line. She withdraws and misses the feeling of Santana flushed and clutching around her, a tragedy like leaving a warm bed on a cold sunrise. With tender care she presses back in with two fingers, just far enough to reach her goal and cover it with warm, even pressure. She has to press hard for her purposes, harder than she would without Santana’s encouraging hands, and when there’s no hint of pain in her girlfriend’s face she presses down again with the heel of her hand and repeats the process. Steadily, she applies more strength to the tensing space beneath Santana’s navel. She presses like she’s doing a deep massage, and she kind of is.

It’s an awkward angle and she’s tense, scared that she might push too hard and hurt Santana no matter what she says. But she keeps her fingers rigid; massages with a short, insistent beat against Santana’s body and the added resistance of her own hand pressing against the outside of her belly. Santana gasps and pants and her brow furrows but she keeps her gaze on Brittany and Brittany doesn’t stop. Hands cradle her head, pulling her close, and it melts her tension like marshmallow in hot chocolate. She has to raise high on her knees to get the right angle to suck Santana’s stiff clit into her mouth with her hands in the way, but she makes it work.

Santana’s thighs shake under all the stimulation, her whole body pulsing and straining with how close she is. She bares her fangs, digs in her claws, growls guttural swears through her clenched teeth. Brittany goes tense too, waiting for the explosion she’s building towards. Her tongue tingles in anticipation.

When she comes it’s so sudden that even though Brittany was waiting for it it shocks her. Her noises are quiet and animal and raw and Brittany’s clit throbs to hear them. There’s a contraction that feels like it could maybe snap her fingers in half and then Santana cries out in a way that barely sounds human, but Brittany knows what she means ( _pull out, pull out_ ). She slides her fingers out as Santana’s intense orgasm causes a hot rush of fluid to gush from her and splash against Brittany’s skin. Gripping Santana’s hips again she buries her face at the junction of her thighs, letting Santana ride her tongue, her mouth, lapping up the mingled fluids that cover her before the water washes it all away.

It’s hot, so so hot, and she buries her own hand between her legs as Santana ruts powerfully against her face. She moans into Santana’s flesh as she rubs her own clit viciously and Santana echoes the sound as it vibrates up from between her legs.

She wants to gorge herself on the taste of her girlfriend - the earthy, salty savor of her blood and come and the new, sweet flavor of her orgasm - but Santana’s soon mewling with overstimulation. More than a little reluctantly she pulls away and presses her face into Santana abs. She needs to feel Santana against her skin, as much as she can, and she strokes against her stomach with her nose, her lips, nuzzles her with her cheek like an overly friendly housecat, all while chasing her own orgasm. Santana’s hand pets at her face and she catches her thumb as it grazes the freckle at the corner of her mouth, sucking it voraciously in a haze.

“God, Britt.”

With weak knees Santana crumples to the bottom of the tub, straddling Brittany’s thighs and sinking her teeth into her throat. Brittany bites the meat of her thumb, panting around it as her already cramping hand aches with the effort to get herself off. She almost cries with relief when Santana takes over, cupping her cheek with her caught hand and pressing the palm of the other hard over her mound. Gripping her at the elbow, Brittany holds her still so she can rock against the resistance. Santana kisses her around her thumb and then replaces it with her tongue. The hand between her legs slips lower until Santana can fit two, then three fingers inside, and Brittany shifts her hold to Santana’s forearm, intent to keep her right there.

She wants Santana inside - she feels so good - but she needs exactly that and also more. And Santana provides. Her palm grinds over her, at first indirectly but then she maneuvers and spreads her open and after that it’s just glorious, intense stimulation. It’s messy and sloppy and delicious. She moans into Santana’s mouth and Santana whispers sweetness back ( _“Oh Britt, I love you. Sweetheart, I’m here.”_ ) and she’s coming to Santana’s song. 

She feels like she got punched in the gut, if getting punched felt amazing and you constantly wanted more and also sometimes wanted the fists to be covered in leather gloves or covered in cheese. But it feels shocking and powerful when it happens, and then after it’s over she feels kind of sore and winded and like she needs to lay down. Her head falls back to the edge of the tub, too heavy to hold up anymore, and Santana kisses the dip of her throat and up to her chin. Kitten claws scratch at her temples as Santana rakes her hair back and out of her face and it makes her feel boneless. She doesn’t even care that her legs are really too long to be wedged into the tub this way, or that Santana’s ass is making them go a little numb.

Ok, that last part is a lie, it kind of hurts. She tries to shake her legs out and shift Santana’s weight around without being obvious about it, but she’s mostly made of jello so it doesn’t work out how she planned. And Santana is still kind of wrung out too, so when she tries to move she just sort of slumps and they end up just sliding together to lay lengthwise in the middle of the tub, just far enough from the shower spray that it’s not going to drown them in the downpour.

Santana’s eyes are so soft and fond that Brittany feels like her heart might run away to live in the other woman’s chest, and she wouldn’t even mind. They curl up close, she on her right side and Santana on her left, their chests pressed to one another. Their hands find each other and Brittany weaves her fingers into Santana’s fingers, content. Maybe too content, as she finds herself snapping awake suddenly with Santana pressing kisses to the back of their folded hands.

Full lips smirk at her. “You’re lucky you’re so hot, ‘cause you are such a freak.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” she replies, giving Santana’s plush lower lip a punitive bite. “I think I could be a really good vampire. I’m already bisexual and I love glitter. That’s like 75% of the job, right?”

The smile on Santana’s face makes her cheeks go all sweet apples, and she wants to bite them. They lay in silence for a bit and Brittany commends herself on her excellent decision to invest in a tankless water heater, no matter what her aunt said. They could probably lay here all night if they wanted, and Santana looks like she’d be totally ok with that. But Brittany is already coming up with a way better plan. She props herself onto her elbow and looks down at Santana, who watches her attentively, waiting to hear her newest brilliance.

“So,” she drawls, squeezing Santana’s hand with her own and stroking over the fine bones with her thumb. “I’m thinking we finish showering, and I start some laundry, and you get us some snacks. And theeeen-” she draws out, leaning down to kiss Santana’s sweet lips just because she can - “I eat you out for, like, a really long time while you watch your prison show.”

Heat flares up all over Santana’s face and chest, and Brittany grins with satisfaction. Santana smacks her in the face lightly with the flat of her palm, covering her grin from sight. “Jesus Christ. Britt, you’re going to fucking kill me with this. My hormones can not handle you.”

Brittany tugs Santana’s hand away, laughing. “We won’t know that for sure until we try.”

“I’m so going to get you back for this shit,” Santana mutters, sitting up and taking in Brittany’s form.

“Promise?” She doesn’t mean it to sound quite as suggestive as it sounds, but she’d be lying if the thought of Santana getting her red wings wasn’t really hot.

Santana smirks that smirk that drives her crazy, arching one perfectly tweezed eyebrow at Brittany's barely constrained excitement. “Pinkie swear. Now shut up and let me clean you up, you’re creeping me out. It’s like the vic from a CSI episode is sitting up at the morgue and talking to me.”

Brittany does shut up, but she keeps Santana distracted from the other stuff for quite a bit longer.


End file.
